


your hand wrapped around my heart

by morthael



Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Body Worship, Bottom Keith, Canon Compliant, D/s elements, Hurt/Comfort, Look it's very soft no matter what the tags say, M/M, Non-Sexual Intimacy, Praise Kink, Shiro's control issues, Top Shiro, authority kink, in both a sexual and non-sexual way, mild choking, you'll see - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-14
Updated: 2021-02-14
Packaged: 2021-03-15 03:22:14
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,493
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29429493
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/morthael/pseuds/morthael
Summary: Keith raises his chin and juts it out. “You wouldn’t hurt me,” he says stubbornly.His metal fingertips tremble for something to crush. “You don’t know that,” Shiro whispers back.“No,” Keith says. “You don’t know it, but you won’t.”And then he steps fully into Shiro’s space again, his two hands wrapping around Shiro’s palm, tugging up, up, until it rests flush against Keith’s throat.Shiro struggles with controlling his new Galra arm. Keith helps him with it.
Relationships: Keith/Shiro (Voltron)
Comments: 26
Kudos: 226
Collections: Sheithlentines 2021





	your hand wrapped around my heart

**Author's Note:**

  * For [utlaginn](https://archiveofourown.org/users/utlaginn/gifts).



> Written for Sheithlentines 2021! Huge thank you to the mods for their hard work organising the event, I had so much fun with this.
> 
> This fic is for [utlaginn](https://twitter.com/utlaginn), who asked for (among other things) authority kink (bonus dom Shiro and/or bratty sub Keith), dealing with PTSD particularly involving anything to do with Shiro’s time as the Champion, and bottom Keith. I had great fun writing this and I hope you enjoy! <3

Shiro has always needed to have a measure of control in his life.

When he becomes the youngest pilot in history to fly a ship solo to the moon and back, that’s proving to himself that he’s good enough, better than anyone, shattering invisible expectations and unspoken limitations. It’s proof that he has control over his own two hands, his life, and his destiny.

The high that he gets from excelling spurs him on and on: he throws himself into theory and simulations to remain the first choice for missions; he wakes before his alarm and the rest of the Garrison to catch the sunrise; he counts calories at mealtime at the cafeteria, but sneaks a second serving of dessert when he can, just because he can.

That has to be enough for someone living according to the strictures of the Garrison, subjected to monthly medical examinations and physicals, told by pale-masked doctors how to best live his life to optimise his best years. But it’s not, never enough, even if it’s all he has, and so when Shiro flies to Kerberos on his last wings of choice and is taken by the Galra, it’s the obliteration of agency that cripples him more than the forced bloody murder for alien thrills in the arena.

The shame and horror of his capture and loss follows him even when he falls back to Earth. The heavy, metal arm is an eternal reminder of the mark of captivity he bears. It’s weighty, it hurts his shoulder, polished with invisible blood that he doesn’t think he’ll ever be able to clean from his joints.

The night he arrives back, the thick tangle of blankets around Shiro’s legs is enough to send panicked adrenaline spiking through his body. He thrashes and kicks out, his brain fogged empty of all thoughts other than _escape_.

“…Shiro?”

The voice, raw and familiar, is just enough to pause the haze of _fight-survive-get free!_ of his mind.

It belongs to someone he knows, Shiro realises, and his eyes focus. A tangle of dark hair. Taller than he remembers. Eyes wide with fear, he’s sure, at Shiro’s gaunt face, his twisted alien arm, the angry slash across his nose.

“Keith,” he whispers. He jerks his arm away, behind the bulk of his body. Untameable metal fingers betray him, gripping far too tight – and the fabric of the shabby couch tears, one more victim to his lapse.

*

Even once they’re aboard the Castle, hurtling through space at speeds unlike anything Earth’s ships have ever seen, Shiro feels wild, tense and trapped like an animal. He reclaims the mask of confidence he had at the Garrison because the facsimile of control is better than nothing, and yet every fibre of him screams out at the wrongness of his body, of their situation. He locks up even more to swallow down that part of him that cries out at every decision that spins from his grasp.

Flying the Lions, and after, as Voltron, helps. At the helm of the Black Lion, Shiro’s at his best, firepower and power thrumming through his fingertips, his orders and the Paladins’ execution carving a swathe of destruction through Galra fleets.

This is not one of those times.

“Lance, stay in formation,” Shiro says. In response, the Blue Lion surges down and playfully shoulder-checks Yellow, dragging out a faint, “ _Hey!_ ” from Hunk.

They’re practising a new drill, doing a flyby of a deserted, inhospitable planet located far out in the furthest reaches of the galaxy away from Central Command. The lack of attack in several quintants has loosened the Paladins, but not Shiro, and his hands rattle around Black’s controls tightly.

He sees the Green Lion drifting. “Pidge,” he barks, patience fraying by a thread, “What are you doing?”

“Wha – oh!” Pidge rushes out, and Green jerks back on course. “Sorry, I was running some code in the background – ”

Shiro’s throat closes before a growl can force its way out. “Everyone, back to the Castle,” he grits out instead. “This isn’t working. Keith, stay on my right.”

Keith’s voice, quiet throughout the drill, cuts into his helmet smoothly. “Yes, sir,” he says briskly.

The afternoon’s been fraught with missed commands and failing concentration – the easy acquiescence takes Shiro by surprise. He jerks, the Black Lion shuddering once beneath him before righting. If Keith notices, he doesn’t say anything.

The debriefing is short and to the point.

Allura shares Shiro’s sentiments; she flays apart their lack of their cohesion while scrolling through their flight data. “We can’t relax our guard now,” she fumes, criticism thick in her voice. “This is the very moment we should be taking advantage of in order to secure Voltron’s advantage over Zarkon!”

“I get that you’re tired,” Shiro says, and a little guilt creeps in for the way he snapped earlier. “All of us should get some rest straight after this. But we need to be doing everything we possibly can to strengthen our bonds with the Lions, and that means working hard together. We’ll resume exercises tomorrow. Everyone understand?”

There’s a scattered chorus of agreement from the paladins.

Except from one.

Shiro turns his head, frowning. “Keith? Do you understand?”

Keith straightens – though he’s been standing at attention this entire time, even while the others had started drooping in fatigue. His fingers fiddle with the rim of his helmet.

“Loud and clear, sir,” he says softly. His voice breaks over Shiro like a cresting wave, punching through the cotton fuzz of his tired brain. The words are military but feel gentle, somehow, on Keith’s tongue.

“A-alright,” Shiro says, steadying the stammer in his voice, “Dismissed, everyone. See you tomorrow morning.”

The shuffling that follows marks the sound of the team breaking up for the night. Shiro lingers, pretending to read over a data pad, but speaks up just as Keith’s about to reach the doorway.

“Wait a moment, Keith,” he says.

Keith pauses. Hunk brushes past him with an apology, and the door whispers closed behind him. It’s just the two of them in the meeting room.

“Sir?” Keith says, taking two steps back in. He’s wide-eyed, the very image of innocence.

Shiro narrows his eyes.

“You did well today,” he says neutrally, because Keith’s still looking expectantly at him.

Keith blinks. “Thank you,” he says, a tiny smile tugging at the corner of his lips.

“Thanks for listening to me,” Shiro replies.

At that, Keith laughs. It’s a quiet little sound. “You make it easy to,” he says, “ _Sir_ ,” and this time Shiro just knows he’s being facetious, that little corner tucking up into a grin.

Shiro’s hands clench of their own accord. Keith flying with him in formation had been balm on his frayed nerves, but _this_ – Shiro doesn’t know what to make of it.

“About that,” he coughs. “You don’t really need to call me that. I’ve never been your commanding officer, so. No one else on the team needs to call me that, either.”

The smile slips from Keith’s face, and he straightens a little. His voice takes on a stubborn edge that Shiro knows well. “You deserve to be recognised,” he argues. “You’re our leader. I – we trust you every time we get in our Lions to fight. I think you deserve a little respect for that.”

Then he says, quieter, “I think it helps you, too.”

Shiro doesn’t know what to do with that. It strikes a little too close, like Keith knows just the right space to start prying at. Like he knows just where to scratch to whittle down Shiro’s walls.

He doesn’t need it. He’s not that vain. But still, when the word sings like praise from Keith’s lips, Shiro’s uncomfortably drawn to it.

“You can call me whatever you like,” Shiro tells him, his voice raspy. “But,” he says, the words sticking in his throat, “You’re not obliged to, to...”

Keith’s eyes fix intently on him. Shiro knows he’s lost the battle even before the words are fully out of his mouth.

“Good night, sir,” Keith says quietly, turning to leave.

Shiro feels a shiver tremble through his body.

*

Keith’s always been attentive to Shiro, but after that, it’s like he’s glued to every word, every command uttered from his mouth. “Yes, sir,” he chants when Shiro sends him scouting forward in his Lion. He doesn’t do it every time – just enough that the sound of _Shiro_ on his tongue starts to feel strangely intimate in comparison. And even as much as Keith’s strange insistence bemuses Shiro, he can’t bring himself to dislike it; Keith’s unswerving trust sinks like a comfortable weight.

It’s still not enough to fully scratch the itch beneath his skin, the pernicious sensation of his body being wrong; too big; not whole. It buzzes inside him, day by day, the line where his flesh melds to steel tight and painful.

Shiro takes to midnight strolls around the Castle. Sleep is fleeting, and while he doesn’t particularly like walking the hallways alone with his own thoughts, at least there he can focus on his own two legs, the way they pump in tandem, the tight muscles flexing and pushing in time with his heartbeat.

Picking a path without thought, Shiro finds himself on the observation deck, a million little lights flickering to life in the centre of the room as he reaches the dais.

It’s peaceful in the room, Shiro thinks, the twinkling lights throwing up a scale replica of the quadrant they’re in. The stars and planets are beautiful, and the projection even shimmers with a colourful spread of stardust and nebulae.

Shiro’s feet move him closer without meaning to. He’s always liked watching the sky. He reaches out for the railing, to pull himself even closer, and then – his metal palm strikes against metal with a _clang_ that reverberates around the room.

He snatches it back, but the damage has been done. The pretty swirling lights blink ominously at him, his arm a heavy lump at his side. Whispers of his mistake ring out metallically until they fade away into the gloom.

Shiro looks down at his hand, tasting bile on his tongue. It feels alien to him, especially in moments like these, where he’s got nothing but time to contemplate himself. He still can’t even control it half the time; it hums to life at a whim when he’s stressed, and each activation burns sick purple through phantom veins. He flexes his fingers, and the joints click faintly like little scarabs in the desert. The sound of it is heightened to Shiro, fascination and disgust welling in him at the unnatural way his fingers move.

Shiro hears another sound, a shuffle that registers sharply to his keyed-up brain. With a shout, he flings his arm out defensively, purple light blazing through the limb.

“I _knew_ there was something wrong,” Keith says, a breath shuddering out of him at his own words. He’s at the bottom of the podium, his arms thrown up defensively, but even as the light of Shiro’s arm falters and flickers away, he jerks them down and marches up to him.

Shiro wants to back down, back away from Keith up in his space, leaning in; he’s lost control of the situation already. But as if sensing his intentions, Keith lunges forward and seizes his shirt, reeling him back in.

“Come on, Shiro,” Keith says, and it comes out pleading against the white knuckles around Shiro’s clothes. “Just talk to me. I know something’s been bothering you. I know you haven’t been sleeping – I, I’ve walked by your room and you’re never there – can’t you just…!”

Shiro swallows hard. His tongue feels heavy.

“You know you can trust me,” Keith says. “I can help you, whatever it is, you just have to…you just have to let me in.” His hands uncurl, shirt still bunched around Shiro’s chest. Shiro trembles, but doesn’t move away.

“It – it’s stupid,” Shiro says, his voice cracking. He hates how it gives himself away, how Keith looks up at him with wide eyes.

“Nothing you say is stupid,” Keith says firmly, so earnestly Shiro wants to laugh.

“It’s my arm,” he says instead, the words coming out before he can think better of it. Keith’s hands loosen further in confusion, and he almost wishes for their comforting weight on his chest again.

“What’s wrong? Are you hurt?” Keith reaches out, and Shiro jerks out of reach with a gasp.

“Don’t touch it!” he hisses, instantly regretting it when Keith recoils. The look on his face makes him want to weep. He runs his other hand across his face with a groan.

“I hate it,” Shiro admits. “I hate that I can’t trust it. I hate that I can’t control it. I hate that I couldn’t stop them from – from doing that to me.” And now that the words are out, he can’t stop himself. It feels like an absolution. “I’d do anything to go back, anything to just – be normal again.”

Keith’s still looking at him, cautiousness in his eyes as he slowly stretches out, his hand working its way up to Shiro’s shoulder. Like he’s a wounded animal. Shiro forces himself not to move, locks every muscle in place. He can do this much, at the very least.

“You always told me, back at the Garrison,” Keith starts, his voice quiet, subdued, “You always said that we should learn from our successes and move on from our failures. To not let them control us.”

Shiro breathes evenly; four counts in, four counts out. “Maybe I’m not the same person I was back at the Garrison,” he replies darkly. “I’ve done terrible things in the name of survival. I had to be – a monster.”

“You’re not a monster.”

Shiro does laugh at that, a sharp sound that makes Keith flinch. “The only thing I’ve ever done with this arm is hurt people,” he says lowly.

Keith raises his chin and juts it out. “You wouldn’t hurt me,” he says stubbornly.

His metal fingertips tremble for something to crush. “You don’t know that,” Shiro whispers back.

“No,” Keith says. “You don’t know it, but you won’t.”

And then he steps fully into Shiro’s space again, his two hands wrapping around Shiro’s palm, tugging up, up, until it rests flush against Keith’s throat.

Shiro almost squeezes in shock. He’s winded without moving, the heat of Keith’s skin seeping through metal sensors where flesh meets uncompromising steel. He keeps his fingers splayed wide out of the fear coursing through him; it would be so easy to grip, crush Keith’s windpipe before he could get his fingers around Shiro’s hand again. Even if he could, Keith’s slender fingers would be no match for Shiro – he imagines Keith pulling at him futilely as Shiro closes his fist, tighter and tighter. Imagines the choked out, breathy noises that he’d make as fear finally overtook him.

“Stop it,” Shiro gasps, like Keith’s the one holding him hostage.

“You can control it,” Keith says instead. God, Shiro can feel his pulse beating steadily under his thumb; it thrums so clearly to Shiro, life thundering beneath his veins. 

He doesn’t know why he doesn’t move, try to fling himself away; Keith’s hands are wrapped around his wrist, but they wouldn’t be able to hold him there if he wanted to let go. Rather, it’s Keith’s eyes that fix him to the ground, glinting in the faint light, challenging him to stay.

So he stays, his fingers gently gripping Keith’s throat, arrested by Keith’s gaze as the minutes trickle by. He can feel each breath that Keith takes, steady and fearless; he feels the heat of his skin that presses into each digit like an embrace. Slowly, the circuits within his arm slow down their firing, relaxing minutely, almost as if there were real muscles beneath that polished outer layer.

Shiro feels still at last, cradling something precious between his fingertips, his hand an extension of the will of his body.

His breathing slows, and Keith smiles up at him. He lets go of Shiro’s wrist, leaning in, and Shiro reflexively pulls back, hand slipping to the centre of Keith’s chest to keep him upright.

“See?” he breathes, and it’s so gentle, like Shiro hadn’t been poised to break his neck mere moments ago. Like he still isn’t. “I knew you could do it.”

Keith’s belief in him staggers Shiro. He doesn’t know what to do with the trust placed in this changed, scarred body – it frightens him. But Keith’s heartbeat, pulsing so surely from his chest against his palm, doesn’t stutter, and so Shiro exhales shakily with it, eyes fluttering shut.

His palm quavers against Keith’s chest, then slowly, reluctantly, he pulls back into his own space. His arm doesn’t feel quite as heavy; when he presses his fingertips together, he can still feel the aftershocks of heated skin against his metal.

“Thank you,” Shiro says, the words a poor substitute for the tangle of feelings caught up in his chest. But Keith seems to understand anyway.

“Anytime,” Keith replies, and Shiro recognises the vow for what it is.

*

The days after their moment in the observatory pass strangely. Shiro feels clear-headed, alert without the restlessness that’s been dogging his every step recently. It’s foreign to Shiro, in the same way that sleep has been foreign to him since his transformation from _pilot_ to _champion_.

But the feeling doesn’t last. Within the next cycle, Shiro finds himself pacing agitatedly in his room, ceaselessly shaking inside his skin throughout the day, and the frustration peaks with a few short, sharp words to one of the paladins at dinner.

Keith’s at his door before he gets a chance to lock himself in. He sweeps in like it’s not a strange thing for him to be there, and in a few short steps he’s firmly in Shiro’s orbit again.

He lifts his head, slides his fingers into Shiro’s hand. They bump against raised, burnished metal knuckles and Shiro flinches; Keith ignores him and drags his hand up until Shiro’s thumbing at a sharp collarbone.

“Here,” Keith whispers, stepping in close, and Shiro’s fingers helplessly climb up like they’re being pulled. As they close delicately around the swell of his throat, Shiro feels the exhaustion of the day wash from him.

In this moment there is nothing but him and Keith, nothing but time holding still for them as Shiro tenses and relaxes his forearm, uncompromising metal cooperating in stages until at last it bends willingly to him. He stands straighter and holds Keith with all the reverence he can muster in his touch.

Standing together like this, Shiro feels more powerful than a god with Keith pressed into his hand, eyes closed in total surrender.

And so it becomes a routine. Every few days, Keith comes to Shiro’s quarters, slinking in confidently. On those days, Shiro drinks greedily from the well that Keith so willingly offers up; in the days without, he frets and aches with guilt.

He grows mesmerised by the feel of Keith’s skin, the way his eyes flicker shut when Shiro’s fingers stroke up and down the expanse of his soft throat. He becomes accustomed to the sight of Keith tilting his head to the side, the challenging stare of his eyes softened by how docilely he folds into Shiro’s touch; the way his eyes fly open when Shiro applies the tiniest bit of pressure – but still he stays rooted, trusting. 

He becomes familiar with the shape and sight of Keith, in tune to the smatter of freckles that sit just below his pulse point – to the tiny scab hidden below his chin that Shiro’s thumb catches on accidentally one day.

“What is this?” he asks, dragging a finger – gently – across the spot again.

Keith brings himself back, blinking blearily until the words register to him. Then he scowls, fire reigniting in his eyes.

“Nicked myself shaving,” he grumbles, and Shiro feels a laugh bubbling up in his throat. He feels light. So light.

“I didn’t know you shaved,” he blurts out before the words have time to pass through his filter, and he’s immediately answered with a filthy look and a scrunched-up nose.

“Of course I do,” Keith says petulantly, and suddenly, the tone of his voice is spell-breaking in a way that has Shiro curling his fingers meaningfully closer.

“Of course I do, _what?_ ” Shiro says.

Keith pauses, sucking in a breath, and for a moment Shiro thinks he’s stepped too far, gone beyond the scope of this _thing_ between them. And then –

“ _Sir_ ,” Keith breathes.

Relief uncoils in Shiro like a golden thread, and he traces the outline of Keith’s Adam’s apple with a gentleness he couldn’t have fathomed even days ago.

Keith rewards him in return, the bob of his throat pushing against Shiro’s thumb in a quiet swallow.

*

The illusion of control is shattered as easily as it comes.

A routine hit and run over a loosely guarded planet quickly devolves into a vicious dogfight as the single expected Galra cruiser turns into fifty. There’s no time to even form Voltron; each of them rolling and twisting in muscle memory of a formation Shiro’s fiercely thankful he insisted on practising.

Even with the Lions, it’s a losing battle – the cruisers seem to be tracking them unerringly quickly, and Shiro’s been thrown around so many times from stray blasts that his sides are starting to bruise. Half of the ships are firing on the Castle, too, and its shields are starting to falter under the sustained assault.

“Fall back!” Shiro orders. “We need to – ”

The next blast illuminates his vision and he braces for impact – but then something red hurtles across his viewport, Keith’s Lion catching the shot on its hind leg.

“Keith!”

“I’m fine!” Keith yells. The laser’s glanced off the plate on Red’s leg; an easier blow to shrug off than one that would have hit Shiro head-on – but Shiro’s hands clench over his controls so tightly he hears metal rattle, muscles and sensors cording up in fear and anger.

“Get back!” he snaps again. “We need to get Allura to wormhole us out – ”

Keith’s already whipped around, Red poised and pointed at the Galran fleet. “I figured out how they’re targeting us,” he says, voice breathless and rolling right over Shiro. “The main ship, they’re all coordinating around it – if I shut it down, the rest of them won’t be able to lock onto us!”

Red rockets off, narrowly avoiding purple bursts of fire.

“ _Keith!_ ” Shiro shouts. “You’ll be cut off – come back!”

Black rumbles a warning and Shiro jerks them violently into a roll to avoid another hit. He swallows down a curse, then directs the rest of the team into a defensive pattern, his eye trained on Keith the entire time.

The Red Lion weaves through laser fire in a dance of death, finally reaching the main ship and scoring a gash through its hull with its jawblade. The rest of the fleet seems to pause in space, their cannons swivelling but now failing to target the Lions with the same eerie accuracy as before. Now toothless, Shiro urges the team forward, and the fleet soon collapses under the paladins’ renewed vigour.

Keith’s elated face appears over the screen. “It worked!” he beams, eyes glittering.

The controls creak in Shiro’s hands. Blood thunders through his veins to the panicked gallop of his heartbeat. “Get back to the Castle, everyone,” he manages, evenly. Then, he cuts the comms.

Back in the mission room, Shiro’s barely aware of the words passing through his lips as they debrief. Now that they know what a fleet of Galran ships can do, he hears Allura add, they’ll know how to deal with them in the future. Then they’re dismissed, each to their own rooms.

It isn’t until Shiro’s back in his, snatching apart his armour and hissing at his bruised sides, that it occurs to him that Keith would usually be here by now.

Shiro never goes to Keith’s room for their… _sessions_. It’s always been a mixture of embarrassment and shame that’s kept him away. But he’s so tightly wound now, angry and lashing himself for not being stronger, more in control of the situation – that he’s out of the door before he can second-guess himself, dressed only in his under-suit and stalking down the hallway.

When he reaches Keith’s door, it’s his metal hand that rises, clanging on the surface in a harsh knock.

He’s answered after a pause, the door sliding open to reveal Keith, dressed down, hair damp and soaking through the back of his collar where the strands at his nape meet fabric. Shiro takes this all in a blink of an eye, and then he’s shoving forward into the room, pushing Keith back, back, and back until the hollows of his knees hit the edge of the bed and they’re tumbling down onto the covers.

Shiro leans over him and his hand snakes out, closing around Keith’s throat. Keith’s mouth opens and he tries to talk, but Shiro squeezes and the sound turns into a startled gasp instead.

“You say you’re trying to help,” Shiro hisses, “You’re _yes sir_ this and _yes sir_ that but it’s all just for show isn’t it? To make me feel better about myself?”

His grip tightens, and Keith’s got fire in his eyes at the way he’s been manhandled onto the bed and a meaningless hand wrapped around his metal wrist, but the spark peters out as Shiro continues to speak roughly, bare knuckles loosening and dropping away.

“You think you can do this, try to make me feel like I’m in control, but you don’t really listen, do you?” Shiro breathes harshly. The words are unfair, but the only thing keeping him attached to this reality is the sensation of skin on metal, and he’s scrabbling for purchase.

Keith’s pulse rabbits against Shiro’s thumb, an elevated _thud, thud_ as his eyes glimmer wide.

“I’m sorry,” he says hoarsely.

Shiro shakes his head, pressing him deeper into the mattress, heedless of the breathless little noise that leaves Keith’s lips. “Apologising usually means it won’t happen again,” he says, “But I think you know you won’t be able to keep that promise.”

Keith’s body shudders with the breath he tries to heave through his lungs. Shiro’s entire weight is pressed onto him.

“I’m trying,” he gasps. “I’m really – I’m trying so hard, to be good for you. But I can’t – I can’t stand back when you’re in danger.”

Shiro shakes him. “You don’t need to do that!” he growls. “I can take care of myself!”

Keith’s fingers are back now, digging into unyielding metal. His voice sounds ruined.

“I do it because I care!”

The haze over Shiro snaps like a rubber band; with it gone, he can see that the glimmer has transformed into tears in the corners of Keith’s eyes. When he removes his fingers from Keith’s throat, it takes time for the blood to rush back to parched skin; it’s beginning to bloom in the colour of bruises where his fingers have left indents.

Shiro jerks and scrambles back, horror curling deep in his gut. He’s finally crossed over – let this game they’ve been playing drag on for too long. Keith’s not an outlet for him to project his fears and uncertainties onto – and yet he’s been using him all the same. His arm trembles.

“Shiro, I – ” Keith starts, but the low rasp of his voice kicks up a tremor in Shiro’s heart.

He flees.

*

Time passes guiltily for Shiro.

He throws himself into being a leader, letting a comfortable, impersonal mantle fall onto his shoulders. He trains hard, sparring against the training robots. He avoids using his right arm. He avoids Keith, the shame gnawing on him every time his eyes catch on his body, his shoulders; the frown on his lips.

The rest of the paladins sense the unease, but are out of their depth. They _know_ Shiro and Keith fall in naturally with each other; it’s an aberration to be anything else, and yet Shiro finds he can hardly bear to look Keith in the eye. It’s sheer force of iron will that allows him to issue commands as normal when they’re in their Lions.

The uneasiness lasts a period that’s both blessedly short and dreadfully long. It goes on until they’re all seated at the dinner table, tired out from running drills all day but eager to dig into Hunk’s latest creations.

His fork halfway to his mouth, Shiro sees movement – or rather, lack of movement – out of the corner of his eye. His gaze skitters over Keith nervously, but it’s enough to see he’s pushing his food around his plate, barely touching it. He swirls it around, raises it to dry lips, then drops it down again.

Shiro feels lead on his tongue. When he swallows, it’s like jamming rocks down his throat.

“Keith,” he says evenly. “Eat your food.” Guilt or not, he wants to take care of him.

Keith’s face shoots up, the fork loosening dangerously in his hand as he stares at Shiro. The stare then transforms, darkening into a glower.

“No,” Keith says, sullenly. His fingers press together, and then he drops the fork in his plate, pushing back from the table to stand up.

Something starts churning in Shiro nervously, tell-tale heat prickling down his spine. “Sit down and eat,” Shiro says, anxiousness swooping in his stomach.

Keith stomps over to him, leaning in so close that Shiro locks up, hardly able to breathe.

“Make me,” he snarls into Shiro’s ear, and then he’s stalking out of the room.

“Dude,” Lance complains. “What’s up with him?” The words are mean but lack heat; they’re babbled nervously into the awkwardness that permeates the room.

Shiro swallows, grimaces a smile that doesn’t reach his eyes. “I’ll take care of it,” he promises, standing as well, but the words ring uncertain to himself.

He catches up to Keith in the corridor, still stamping down the hallway moodily. He stiffens as Shiro draws closer, but still comes to a stop as Shiro darts in front of him, jerking his head around to glare off to the side.

“What the hell are you playing at, Keith,” Shiro asks, pained. Standing directly to his front, he catches a glimpse of Keith’s neck – and it’s still bruised, faded enough that the tall collar of his jacket hides it well, but Shiro knows where to look – and averts his eyes guiltily.

“What?” Keith challenges. “You want me to go down quietly just cause you don’t like it? You think I’m like that?”

 _Yes_ , Shiro thinks, if only because he knows – he _knows_ Keith doesn’t make it easy for others to earn his trust, but with Shiro, he listens. He always has. And that he’s not, now – it screams of hurt lashing out with more hurt.

He’s hurt that Shiro’s been avoiding him.

“I don’t,” Shiro says. “I don’t think that.”

Keith’s eyes flicker upwards for a second, then slant away again, brows furrowing down. He tenses, like he’s ready to turn and go.

“No!” Shiro says, reaching out automatically. His hands stop halfway there, hovering uncertainly in the air. “You don’t need to – to do anything I say. You don’t have to listen to me.”

If anything, Keith seems to lock down further at his words; Shiro’s heart drops through his stomach like a stone.

“You think that’s what I care about?” Keith says. He twists around, lowering his head to stare hard at the floor. He laughs sharply, a whip crack in the empty hallway. “I want – I _want_ to do everything right by you.” His hands clench, so hard his fingernails must be scoring marks into his skin. “But I guess this was the only way to get your attention, huh?”

Shiro licks his lips. His mouth is dry and he feels like he’s teetering on the edge of something important.

“I’m sorry,” he whispers, his human hand gently coming to a rest on Keith’s shoulder. Keith shivers and leans into it, but his gaze is still rooted firmly to the ground. “I didn’t mean to – to hurt you.” Twice, Shiro realises, and in two different ways, and the shame burns brighter in his chest.

“I’m scared,” he admits, and his voice cracks. Keith’s head whips up, eyes wide in incredulity. “I get scared when things don’t go the way they should. The way I need them to. What you d-did, it really helped. But I couldn’t face myself again after – after I hurt you. I know I pushed you away. I’m sorry.”

Keith steps closer, no longer looking like he’s about to turn and run, and Shiro breathes shakily through his nose.

“Make it up to me then,” Keith says. He lifts his chin. “If you think you can.”

Keith leads them to his room, Shiro trailing behind with his heart pounding in his ears. The sight of the door opening is almost enough to send him running again, but Keith seems to anticipate him, catching his wrist and tugging him over the threshold.

Inside the room, Keith shrugs off his jacket and throws it haphazardly onto a hook; he rummages around in a drawer before returning to Shiro.

In the cool above-head lighting, the bruises around Keith’s throat look more lurid than they are. Shiro swallows reflexively again, an echo of metal digging into sensitive skin shivering through haptic sensors in his hand.

Keith holds out a small tube of something – he presents it until Shiro’s forced to take it, staring at the unfamiliar Altean script adorning the front.

“It’s bruise cream,” Keith explains. He taps the side of his neck, like it isn’t obvious: “For this.”

“You – you want me to?” Shiro whispers.

Keith rolls his eyes. “Yes. Obviously.”

Shiro opens the cap, the smell of something herby and medicinal wafting forth. “Where did you even get this from?” he wonders. It’s certainly not something Shiro has stock of in his room.

Keith grunts. “Took it from the med bay,” he says. “Hurry up.”

Shiro looks at him, his lips parting with the words he wants to say to that – but Keith interrupts him before he can gather his wits.

“God would you just help me Shiro and stop thinking about it!” 

Shiro jumps. Keith’s voice rings around the room, and he winces, pink dusting across his face.

“Just…I want you to help me,” he mumbles, quieter.

Right. Keith needs his help – Shiro can do that, he can provide.

“Sit down,” he says, and, relaxing with his acquiescence, Keith goes willingly, perching himself down on the bed.

Shiro goes with him, tentatively sitting thigh to thigh. He raises the tube, about to squeeze into his left hand, but Keith interrupts him again.

“Wait,” he says. “Use – use the other one.”

His right hand. The hand that hurt him.

Shiro’s already shaking his head. “I can’t,” he whispers. “I can’t control it – ”

Keith touches his metal forearm, and it’s all Shiro can do not to flinch back. “You won’t hurt me,” he promises, a ghost of that first night, and he says it so sincerely that Shiro can’t help but be compelled. Keith’s voice is honey over gravel; he’s fast ensnared in its amber.

Trembling, Shiro gets some of the cream onto his right hand; it’s cold to the touch and a bit runny in consistency. When he has enough, he reaches out, fingers drawing closer and closer until they graze Keith’s skin. Keith breathes quietly in, and Shiro touches his throat again, more firmly, daubing faint circles to work the cream in.

Keith’s eyes flutter closed. “Feels good,” he sighs, the movement of his throat skimming against metal fingertips.

“Don’t move,” Shiro says urgently, his other hand bunching in Keith’s shirt. The prosthetic whispers mechanically at the turning of his fingers, rubbing gently until white dissolves into clear, leaving a thin, tacky film over Keith’s skin.

Keith’s cheek twitches with a smile he has to abort for the way it moves his jaw. “Yes sir,” he says instead, and then presses his lips together into silence.

Shiro gets more cream and moves onto the other side of his throat. He massages it in carefully, his complete focus on the soft, inviting skin, dragging slowly across Keith’s throat even after it’s all dissolved. He lingers, then, the methodical movement of his fingers relaxing into something even gentler, trailing impossibly lightly around the bob of Keith’s throat, traversing downward to his clavicles and then back up again.

 _This is beyond helping Keith_ , Shiro tells himself. _You should stop it._ And yet he keeps going anyway, touching Keith as tenderly as he dares, watching as he goes pliant under his hold, the tiny pinch between his eyebrows disappearing.

Shiro doesn’t know how much time passes before he comes back, his hand warm and slippery and the lights dim in anticipation of the sleep cycle.

“Time for bed,” he says, voice flecked with rust, and watches as Keith sways, his eyes blearily blinking open.

“Stay,” he says sleepily, and topples over against Shiro’s chest. Against the weight of drowsiness, though, there’s an undercurrent of tension, ridged across Keith’s back as he wedges himself more firmly into Shiro.

Shiro exhales against Keith’s hair. “Alright,” he whispers, and he feels the tension drain from Keith’s body, ebbing away little by little, until he’s completely lax, cheek turned and face tucked away.

They lie down together, Shiro’s arms bracketing Keith and Keith curled into him. It’s quiet, but the languid sort of quiet that only stirs in the light of dawn. That’s what Shiro prays for as he closes his eyes, his heart beating too fast and the soft smell of Keith’s hair, still damp, tickling at his nose.

His hand doesn’t leave Keith’s throat the entire time. The metal stays quiet and still but for the rise and fall of it over Keith’s chest as he breathes.

*

And then Shiro forgets what it’s like to touch Keith, for a long time.

An eternity of nothingness passes – both unable to touch _anything_ , and unable to be touched. He tests the limits of his control on the astral plane and finds he has nothing, nothing but the whirling stars and his tenuous hold over the particles that make up his body.

When feeling bursts within him again, it’s locked behind the grate of crazed violet eyes, his hand – _always his hand_ – searing a line into Keith.

“Shiro, please!” Keith sobs, and Shiro blacks out.

*

_I love you._

*

He wakes up in the bunk of the Black Lion. The grey metal arches of the ceiling are something he’d recognise anywhere, and yet they seem foreign to him after a lifetime away from his hazed perception.

Something else, too, feels foreign. It’s _feeling_ in its entirety, and Shiro shivers and gasps at the sensation of pressure on his shoulder, his chest. He recoils away.

“Shiro – Shiro, it’s me!”

Shiro’s vision swims and then fuzzes into focus. He’s horizontal, the thin white sheets of the bed grazing roughly against his skin, the sharp emptiness that’s his right arm. Keith’s kneeling over him, eyes wide, dark hair hanging low down his face. The weight on his chest is Keith’s hand, and the visual of it is so light – yet to Shiro, it feels like he’s bearing down on him with the force of a hammer.

“Keith,” he chokes out, rough and ragged. His eyes dart everywhere, drinking in the changes to Keith’s face; his longer hair, jaw sharpened with maturity, the vicious red scar that slashes across his cheek. “I’m – I’m sorry – ”

“No,” Keith says, his voice tinged with emotion, “No, you don’t get to – we saved each other, I don’t care about anything else – just let me…”

He throws himself forward, his arms burrowing into the sheets to loop around Shiro’s neck, hugging him. It almost feels like too much, Shiro’s nerves fried with oversensitivity, but the pressure morphs into something else – and it feels like relief, to be grounded against the bed after so long hurtling loose in space.

Shiro tentatively reaches out as well, winding his single, human arm across the expanse of Keith’s back. His skin’s covered by a simple shirt, the texture of it cotton and worn. He picks up a stray thread sweeping his thumb across it, and when he pauses to worry his fingers against it, Keith flinches against him, wiry muscle rippling in surprise under his palm.

“Ah – sorry!” Keith says breathlessly into Shiro’s ear. “I wasn’t expecting – ” he feels the flush bloom across Keith’s cheeks and radiate outwards, “ – it’s…ticklish.”

Shiro huffs a sudden, surprised laugh, and then he can _hear_ the whine in Keith’s voice. 

“ _Shiro_ ,” he says.

It’s plaintive, a whisper of a joke in it, but the syllables spark through Shiro’s mind with delight and he hugs Keith closer. The motion jars a soft whoosh of breath from Keith, who sighs with it.

“I missed this,” he whispers. “I missed – I missed you.”

Shiro loses himself momentarily in the thread count of Keith’s shirt. It’s old and smooth, the dye a little faded. The words register afterwards, pinging uncomfortably around his head.

“But…you had – _him_ ,” Shiro says. “The clone.”

Keith’s silent for a moment, and then he pushes back, disentangling himself until he’s sitting up again.

“The other you, he never…” he trails off, then looks at Shiro meaningfully. “He never, you know.” Red creeps up his cheeks again, and he strokes a finger across his throat. Shiro looks on, transfixed.

“I thought it was strange, but I didn’t question it, and then there just…didn’t seem to be any time to do anything, between the war and the Blades.” Keith’s fingers twist together and his eyes flick downwards. “I guess I should have known.”

Shiro struggles to his elbows – it still feels like he’s being pressed to the ground, even without Keith on top of him – but he needs this. He pushes until he’s level with Keith.

“You couldn’t have known,” he rasps. “He _was_ me…and, in some way, he still is.”

Keith’s eyes flicker upwards.

“The memories are still coming back to me,” Shiro continues. “I’m – I still feel kind of muddled, but – Keith, you couldn’t have known. You couldn’t have.”

Keith’s mouth curves into a trembly smile. “I know that,” he whispers.

Shiro reaches out, hand curling around Keith’s bicep – just to feel anchored again.

“I remember a lot of things,” he says. “Not just – the clone’s memories, but from Black – just flashes, but enough.” He tenses his arm, gripping a little tighter. “You pulled a lot of reckless moves while I wasn’t there, Keith.”

Keith shifts, looking uncomfortable, but Shiro’s hand holds him tight, not giving way.

“You could have been hurt,” Shiro says, more urgently. “You could have died. You _would_ have.”

He can picture it – a Galra fighter, fearlessly flying towards its death. The memory isn’t really there, but Matt’s words afterwards, hushed and disbelieving, form in his mind.

Keith swallows.

“I…” he says. Swallows again, and restarts. “I know what you’re going to say. But I just couldn’t, I had to do something. I’m sorry. But I’d do it again.”

Shiro’s grip eases slightly. “I know you would,” he says. Something fond slips into his voice. “You saved me. My troublemaker.”

Keith flushes fully, pink darkening his cheeks to red. Shiro pulls at his arm. “No one to keep you in line, huh?” he says. He means it teasingly, but Keith’s face snaps up fast, his mouth opening and closing without a sound.

“Keith?” Shiro says softly.

“You – you could, you know,” Keith stutters. Red pours onto his face. “Keep me in line. If you wanted to.”

Shiro’s drawn to the nervous bob of Keith’s throat, tendons standing in sharp relief and relaxing again. His words have the same taste of before, that unflinching willingness to support him no matter the need – but it’s different, deeper, and tinged with nervousness.

“I don’t need to anymore,” Shiro whispers, edging closer. “My arm…”

Keith’s barely breathing. “You don’t have to,” he says, but his fingers wind sharply into the bedsheets, white-knuckled.

“But you want me to?” Shiro guesses.

Keith bites his lip. He nods, slowly, like he doesn’t want Shiro to catch him in the movement.

“You want me to touch you?” Shiro murmurs, and his hand shifts upwards.

Keith nods again, and this – this is more than has ever been before, closer than Shiro’s ever dared to touch. His hand ghosts higher again, skating up the slope of Keith’s shoulder, past his neck, until it cups his cheek, thumb hesitant to touch the bright gash there, red and still painfully shiny, new.

Shiro doesn’t have a metal arm that moves and acts without his permission anymore, but as he leans in slowly, slowly enough for Keith to realise what he’s doing, he thinks – he’s never been more in control of a moment.

Keith’s eyes are blown wide, but he doesn’t move – like he’s rooted to the spot. Shiro inches closer until they’re sharing a breath, and then closes the final distance, meeting Keith’s lips with his own.

Sensation blooms across his mouth. Keith’s lips are dry; the skin rough and chapped, and the drag of it across Shiro’s mouth should be unpleasant but it sparks molten through him instead, his heart tripping over a beat in his chest.

Shiro feels hot as he breaks for air, heat crawling through his face, painting him an honest red. “Keith,” he croaks. Keith’s lips taste sweet. When they part, Keith chases him forward.

“If you want,” he whispers to Shiro, and pulls his hand past his cheek, down until it’s resting on the curve of his throat.

“N-no,” Shiro stammers in momentary panic. “That’s – how I hurt you.” Keith’s new scar radiates heat from where his fingers had brushed against it.

“This one’s all you,” Keith says, curling his fingers around Shiro’s. They slot together like they were made to. “You’ll never be able to hurt me like that again.”

Shiro shudders, but moves his fingers anyway, barely a twitch to seat them more securely around his throat. The movement sends a frisson throughout Keith, a shiver that ripples bodily up his spine. Shiro freezes, and then realisation trickles in like a warm flood.

“You like that,” Shiro whispers. Keith makes a soft sound, embarrassed, and Shiro shakes his head. “You like it when I touch you like this?”

“Yes,” Keith says, eyelashes whispering across skin as he blinks furtively.

Shiro runs his fingers down Keith’s throat and Keith chokes back a sigh. “Yes?” he presses.

Keith groans. “Yes sir,” he whines.

His skin feels so different under a palm made of flesh and bone; the sensation is sharper, more vivid than under artificial sensors, hot and slightly clammy under his heated hand, soft and inviting and _alive_.

“Is this what you wanted, back then?” Shiro asks. He has to know. Keith’s hands are no longer clutching the sheets – they’re raised, now, bunching into Shiro’s sleep shirt.

“N-no,” Keith says. His eyes widen and his cheeks are flushed red, but he twists his fingers into Shiro’s arm almost painfully, shaking his head.

“That was – it wasn’t like this before,” he says. “It was about helping you, it always was – I didn’t mean to – ”

“Keith,” Shiro says.

“You needed help,” Keith blurts out, “And I could help. I could see it working. I didn’t know if you wanted – I mean, even if I, I got something out of it, I – _it_ – wasn’t important. It was always for you – ”

Keith’s words spill out tangled and knotted one after the other, but Shiro’s always been good at figuring out the honesty behind them.

He leans forward, pressing their lips together again. Keith’s mouth parts, opening in surprise, and Shiro dives in, swiping a wet trail into the heat of his mouth. He stays there for a while, sucking on Keith’s tongue gently when it pauses uncertainly, then letting Keith push into him, rolling experimentally around his mouth, his teeth. 

When Shiro pulls back, his lips are sticky and wet. “You’re so good to me,” he murmurs softly.

Keith squirms in his grip. “ _Shiro_ ,” he says, helplessly. His mouth is shiny with spit.

Shiro groans. “You like that as well,” he breathes. “You like being good for me.”

Keith shudders. “Stop,” he says, but arches towards Shiro into another kiss. “Shiro!”

He’s so beautiful, sitting across from Shiro; his hair is messy, framing his flushed face, and every part of his body seems to gravitate towards Shiro. How had he not realised what Keith had wanted before?

“I wanted this too,” he confides, his thumb stroking down the skin of Keith’s neck. “But you always looked so, so peaceful after – I didn’t know and I didn’t want to assume – ”

Keith clenches his jaw. Shiro can feel it bunching the cords in his neck. He squeezes lightly, to loosen him out.

“Can we – ” Keith says. “Can I take off my shirt?”

His eyes are dark. Shiro relaxes his hand, draws back enough that he hears a faint complaint follow him, and then reaches down to the worn hem of Keith’s shirt.

And then Keith’s hands are coming down as well, dragging his shirt up and off in a graceless motion, wriggling his chest about in a way that’s halfway to sinful. Shiro groans again, can’t help but reach out to touch his stomach, feel his way up the soft skin that pads sinewy muscle. It’s warm, hotter than his throat.

Keith yelps, the shirt still tangled around his arms over his head, and Shiro uses the moment to rush forward, pushing them both into the bed with a muffled thump.

“Fuck, Keith,” Shiro whispers, trailing his hands around Keith’s chest. He can’t stop himself, not when every inch of skin he traces brings a hitched breath out from him. It’s soft, but it still shocks through the ridges of Shiro’s fingertips, solid and present. “You look so perfect.”

Keith whines and fists his hands into the fabric of his shirt. His eyes roll around, seeking out everything but Shiro, his blush travelling down to his chest. He’s fidgety, looking half frustrated at Shiro’s words even as he reaches blindly towards him – and that’s just like him, Shiro thinks. Hardly able to accept the words Shiro knows are true.

“Kiss me,” Keith says desperately, like he wants to shut Shiro up, stop any more words from escaping his lips – but Shiro knows his tricks; and now he wants to pull acceptance from Keith’s body. He wants to worship him, show him that he’s worth every single good thought Shiro’s ever had about him.

And there are so many.

“I don’t think you get a say in this at the moment,” Shiro says, the words light enough to bely the desire in him. He leans down, enough for Keith to immediately crane his neck towards him, but Shiro merely knocks their noses together and dances back out of range.

Keith could get out of this at any moment – the shirt’s hardly a challenge for him, and Shiro knows Keith could shove his body weight and more off him without breaking a sweat – but he stays like that anyway, arms obediently locked above his head. “Shiro,” he pleads.

Shiro ducks his head down, brushes his mouth against Keith’s nipple, and then opens, flicking his tongue over it and then settling down to draw it into his mouth.

Keith jerks and cries out, twisting in the bedsheets. “Sh – Shiro!”

Shiro hums and grazes his teeth against Keith’s nipple, smiling open-mouthed against damp skin as Keith sucks in a shocked breath. He flattens himself on top of Keith, works his other hand up to rub the other one between his fingers.

“Oh my god,” Keith groans, his hips jerking and trying to arch up, but slamming uselessly against Shiro’s weight, “Oh my god – _oh my god_ – ”

The noises falling from his mouth spur Shiro on – he licks hungrily against him, drinking in bitten-off and half unconscious sounds, capturing the hardened nub between his teeth and groaning as the bite sets Keith off more.

“You’re so – so sensitive,” Shiro rasps as he lifts his head off Keith’s chest. His nipples are red, raw from the tormenting Shiro’s put them through – but it hardly compares to the way Keith’s face looks, mouth hanging open and eyes black and unfocused.

“Shiro,” he moans. “I need – I need…”

His hips thrust upwards again, and Shiro feels it this time, hardness tenting his pants.

Shiro sucks in a breath. “I’ll take care of you,” he promises. “Turn over, let me take that off you.”

He sits back enough for Keith to roll over, and he does it immediately, losing the remainders of his shirt easily, hips and legs bucking as he scrambles to pull his pants off. It’s just as artless as before, but the eagerness is endearing in its own way.

Shiro’s also hard, incredibly hard in his pants as Keith shoves down his underwear, sprawling awkwardly and completely bare into the bed again, face turned to the side to take in Shiro’s expression.

“Shiro,” he whispers plaintively, “Are you, are you gonna – ”

Shiro can’t help himself; he ruts into the space between Keith’s cheeks, clothed dick roughly scratching against his skin. They both groan.

“Do you want me to?” Shiro whispers back, trembling at how hard he is, how much he wants to hump against Keith’s thighs again. “Do you want me to fuck you?”

Keith shudders against the bedsheets. His hips rise off the bed, chasing Shiro. “Please,” he gasps out. He starts working a hand underneath himself, reaching for himself, but cuts himself off, eyes flicking back.

“Touch yourself for me,” Shiro encourages gently, and Keith muffles another moan into the sheets, squeezing his eyes shut as his hand closes around his cock.

“Shiro,” he pants, shivering, “The bedside table – the drawer… _ohh_ …”

It takes Shiro a second to jerk into action, his mouth open at the sight of Keith twisting beneath him, fucking into his hand in tiny little motions – like he’s trying to pace himself, but can’t help the movement anyway.

Shiro struggles to his feet, yanking off his clothes as he rips open the drawer – and there it is, a tube of cream, crumpled up and curled at the bottom from where it’s been squeezed dry. The bruise cream.

He goes back to Keith. It had been mostly full when he’d last used it – now, there’s hardly any left. “You’ve been – you’ve been using this lot,” he says stupidly, raking his eyes over Keith’s body like it’ll reveal the secrets of where he’s been hurting.

Keith pauses, shakily looking at Shiro. When he sees the tube in Shiro’s hand, he immediately colours and buries his face in the bedding with a groan.

“That’s not – I wasn’t injured,” he mumbles into fabric. “It’s just that I... Um.”

His hand jerkily lets go and comes out from underneath him. He gropes backwards, until his fingers circle his hole, dipping in and then withdrawing with a hiss.

“Oh my god,” Shiro says, arousal washing through him anew. Keith’s been – he’s been using this to touch himself. His fingers tremble and clutch at the tube. He gets it open with his teeth and gets it onto his palm. Too much comes out, awkward and ungainly as he his with a single hand, but he slicks the excess onto his cock and rumbles with the hot knife of pleasure that stabs through him. His fingers, slippery with cream, move to Keith, stroking down the crease of his ass with a certainty that jerks a whimper from him.

“Let me,” Shiro whispers, then crooks a finger in, and Keith’s hand relaxes and falls away, returning to pillow his head.

“I – I used to imagine this,” Keith breathes, breath hitching with the second finger that delves into his hole. It’s hot, his insides burn against Shiro’s fingers and he clamps tight around him.

“Yeah?” Shiro says. His fingers slide out and punch back in, and Keith heaves on the bed. “You used to imagine me touching you like this?” He thrusts again, and Keith moans, wriggling his hips like he’s not sure whether to try to push back or get away.

“F-fuck,” he gasps. His hips rock up. Trying to push back onto his fingers, then. His thighs are slippery, sweat beginning to gather on his skin.

“You want me to hold you down, tell you what to do?” Shiro leans forward, breathing into the shell of Keith’s ear. “Fuck, baby, you wanna be good for me?”

Keith jerks, nails biting into his forearms where his head rests. His whimper is as good an answer as any, a muffled sound as he desperately rolls his hips onto Shiro’s fingers.

Shiro thrusts his fingers again, deeper, rougher, and Keith wails, his spine arching impossibly, hole clenching tight around Shiro and then – it happens, nails growing and sharpening before Shiro’s eyes, raking lines across tightly gripped forearms.

Keith’s back stiffens with the movement, painfully aware of his transformation. His hips stutter and stop.

“Baby,” Shiro says hoarsely. He’s so hard that he’s sure he’d come if he so much as grazed Keith’s entrance with his dick, but the feeling fades into second place at Keith’s discomfort. “Don’t hurt yourself, Keith, you can do it, let go.”

He murmurs more comforting words into Keith’s ear, tinged a plummy purple and tucked away from him like he’s trying to hide his face in his arms. Shiro’s sure that if he could see Keith’s eyes, they’d flash yellow at him, slitted and primal.

His fingers pump in and out a few more times, then ease out of Keith’s hole.

“No,” Keith whispers, then it ramps up into a cry. “No – Shiro – please – !” He tries to buck upwards.

Shiro plants his fingers around the back of Keith’s neck, shoving him back into the bed.

“ _Ungh_ – _!_ ”

“Come on, let go,” Shiro urges. He squeezes his fingers and slides his slick cock between the cleft of Keith’s ass with a strangled groan. “Don’t you want to help me, beautiful? Help me by taking care of yourself.”

Keith’s hands tremble, and then he peels his claws away from his skin, shaking with the effort. “I’m sorry,” he moans, shoulders hunched tight, his curtain of dark hair obscuring his face.

“Beautiful baby,” Shiro whispers to him, and then reaches down to guide the head of his cock to Keith’s entrance. “Relax, Keith, I know you can do that for me.”

The moment Shiro makes it an order, Keith goes pliant, sinking down onto the covers with a whimper. Shiro squeezes his neck again, appreciatively, and then pushes forward.

The first slide of his cock into Keith is an exercise in agony; it’s searing hot and Keith whines as he struggles to take him.

“Tight,” Shiro gasps, and Keith squeezes even tighter. It’s a vice grip that claws at him with each torturous inch he sinks into him.

“You’re so deep,” Keith moans. He tries to meet him, take him, push back onto Shiro, but his legs shake weakly at Shiro’s weight on him. His fingers claw at the sheets and the fabric comes apart ripped.

Shiro pushes in fully with a final wet thrust, and then topples over with a shuddery groan, folding over Keith and pressing them both into the mattress. He can feel the pulse of his dick throbbing inside. Keith shifts minutely and his hole clamps around him; Shiro heaves out a breathless cry and presses a sweaty kiss to Keith’s ear.

“There you are,” Shiro whispers. “Can you look at me?”

Keith shakes his head, burying himself in his arms again.

Shiro delicately draws out, the slide of it smooth and long, and then snaps his hips forward again. The force of it punches a startled sob from Keith’s lips.

“Don’t,” he begs, but Shiro wants, _needs_ him to obey this once. Not for Shiro’s sake, but for Keith’s.

“Look at me,” he commands, thrusting meanly into him again. “Baby,” he amends, when Keith cries out, writhing beneath him. He kisses against all the exposed areas of Keith’s neck and face until his eyes crack open, turning to face Shiro haltingly.

Keith’s eyes are an unmistakable Galra hue, golden and glowing in the dim light of the room. When he opens his mouth to breathe wetly, the sharp points of his teeth glitter, lined with a string of saliva.

“Beautiful,” Shiro leans in, pushing the weight of the word into Keith’s mouth. His lips flutter against Keith’s as he speaks. “You’re beautiful, Keith.”

Keith hangs there for a moment in time, eyes glimmering and disbelieving, the scar on his cheek glowing red. Shiro ducks in to land a kiss there, sloppy and off-balance, and when Keith keens with the way the movement drives Shiro’s cock into him, he darts back to lick hotly into Keith’s mouth. He tastes sweet and addictive, yielding to him with a breathless whimper as Shiro lifts and thrusts forward, steadily, roughly, the force of each snap of his hips driving them further up the bed.

“Shiro,” Keith groans, and he breaks away, the strand of spit between them breaking as he collapses onto his hands. He swipes a dry tongue over dry lips and tries to speak again, collecting himself long enough to swallow, throat clicking. “More,” he pants, “Harder.” 

Shiro gives his mouth one last earnest lick, but Keith’s not really kissing back anymore, jaw slack and eyes beginning to lid. He kisses Keith on the cheek again, not missing how he arches up unconsciously to chase him back. He presses another kiss into Keith’s forehead, sweaty and mussed bangs tickling into his mouth, and then pushes him down, hand settling heavily around the back of Keith’s neck.

“Gonna take care of you,” Shiro promises, voice rough and low, and then he punches forward with the new angle, slamming into tight heat. Keith screams, claws tearing into the sheets, so Shiro does it again. And he doesn’t stop.

Any other words are driven from Keith’s mouth by Shiro fucking hard into him, each scoring deeper and harder than the last. He whines and whimpers and then even that sound breaks up into tiny breathless huffs, the noise spilling from him unbidden in time with each thrust.

Shiro’s hardly faring any better, breathless and shaking as he sinks into wet heat, over and over again.

“Fuck,” he gasps, squeezing at the nape of Keith’s neck and groaning at the accompanying clench around his cock. “Fuck, Keith – “

His edge is rapidly approaching; he’s on fire at the sight of Keith spread out for him, grasping at the covers, his mouth stretched wide in delirious pleasure. His face has been pushed into the sheets, which are starting to turn clear with his muffled sobs, but he makes no move to struggle out of Shiro’s grasp, yielding so, so completely to him.

This is what Keith is willing to do for Shiro. This is what he _wants_ to do.

Shiro moans helplessly, the rhythm of his hips stuttering. “Keith, I’m – I’m – ”

“ _Nngh_ ,” Keith groans, arching upwards, and Shiro feels it then – his hole squeezing down on him so hard it almost hurts, rhythmically clenching as Keith starts to shake and moan. It sweeps Shiro over the edge too, hopelessly stimulated, and he whimpers as he comes apart into Keith, on and on as Keith arches and gasps wordlessly into the sheets.

Shiro slumps and sprawls onto Keith, his single hand twining into Keith’s, still buried deep inside him. Keith clenches around him in the aftershocks of his own orgasm and it shoots liquid fire up his cock. He grinds deeper into Keith, muffling his moan of oversensitivity into his shoulder.

Every part of his body feels loose and heavy with bliss; he’s just conscious enough to tuck a tired kiss where his mouth meets Keith’s skin.

“I love you,” Shiro whispers into his hair, cognizant of the way Keith’s breathing, heavy and quick, stills into silence. “You’re so good to me. How do I deserve you?”

“You deserve everything,” Keith whispers back, and it’s so full of painful honesty that Shiro almost breaks.

He chuckles instead, a little breathlessly. “The things you’ve done for me,” he says, and rises onto his elbow with a grunt. Keith makes a choked little noise as Shiro’s cock slides free, clenching tight – but not fast enough to catch the trickle of come that starts leaking from his hole. Shiro touches him soothingly, running his hand up and down Keith’s flank.

“Let me do something for you now,” he says gently. “Let me clean you up.”

Keith peeks at him from where he’s pillowed in his hands. Shiro smiles again, a little deprecatingly, and smooths his hand down Keith’s leg. “It doesn’t compare to what you’ve done for me, but.” He trails his fingers back up, and Keith shivers a little, closing his eyes. “Can I?”

Keith nods. “Yeah,” he says lowly, and there’s a rough sort of quality to his voice. “Please,” he adds.

“I’ll be right back,” Shiro promises, starting to rise. He pauses only to skim another kiss against the back of Keith’s thigh.

Keith jerks a little, a startled laugh falling from his mouth, and Shiro flicks his eyes up, trying to commit that smile to memory in the seconds before he backs out of the room.

He returns as fast as he can; holding a damp, hot washcloth in his hand, a folded clean sheet tucked under his arm, cradling a hydration pack precariously in the space between.

Keith’s starting to sit up as Shiro comes back, but doubles down again with a splutter of a laugh as Shiro ducks through the door.

“Hey,” Shiro hums, and crosses the floor in a few strides, angling down to drop the hydration pouch into Keith’s lap. “Drink up.”

Keith cracks a small smile. “Thanks,” he whispers, poking the straw through, and Shiro flushes, giddy with how radiant he looks. 

He obediently lays down as Shiro settles next to him, eyes fluttering shut and lips parting, straw momentarily forgotten, as Shiro rubs the warm cloth over his sweaty body.

“Feels nice,” Keith whispers as Shiro presses the cloth up his chest, and then around each of his scratched arms. Shiro’s heart twinges a little at the words; he quietly resolves to give Keith this soft touch, as much as he can.

When Keith shivers in the aftermath, Shiro unfolds and throws the blanket over him, tucking himself in close against his body. Keith presses back against him, kicks his legs out of the sheets so he can seek out skin contact with Shiro.

“Was that okay?” Shiro murmurs, when Keith stops shifting, seemingly settled in his little cocoon of an embrace. “Was that – too much?”

He hadn’t meant to hold Keith down like that; hadn’t meant to shove him so roughly. He bites his lip.

Keith tightens his leg around Shiro’s. The cord of muscle bites into his thigh.

“You needed it,” he says quietly, simply. “You didn’t hurt me.”

Shiro gazes down at him, conflicted. “It’s not just about me,” he whispers. “You matter, Keith. Don’t compromise yourself just because you think it’s what I need.”

Keith rolls closer to him, tilting his chin up to deliver a small, gentle kiss to Shiro’s lips. The action feels more deliberate, more meaningful than all of their other kisses combined.

“You’ve never been too much,” he says. “You’ve always been good to me. And I think, maybe…maybe I needed it too.”

Shiro _knows_ what it takes to be vulnerable. Knows that it’s not Keith’s instinct. It amazes and awes him that Keith wants to – he _likes_ being vulnerable for him in this way.

He brushes Keith’s hair from his forehead, admiring the way it catches in his fingertips, reveals a smooth expanse of skin. He presses a kiss there, right between Keith’s brows.

It’s a tender move that has Keith curling into him, smiling – and Shiro’s still not sure why Keith thinks he deserves the control that Keith voluntarily passes to him, but –

Shiro’s never been in control of his destiny; there’s always been too many factors pulling him in untold directions. Control is a myth; there’s nothing to be said about control in a universe where life and body can be ripped from a person in an instant.

He lets go of Keith’s hair to run his fingers down to his throat again. Immediately, unbidden, Keith tilts his chin back, offering Shiro unfettered access to him.

Instead of closing his fingers, Shiro leans in, and presses a tender kiss to Keith’s throat.

**Author's Note:**

> Come talk to me on [twitter](https://twitter.com/anuveon)!


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